


ad astra per aspera

by pratktcven (calciseptine)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 09:36:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 13,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11941347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/pratktcven
Summary: a collection of voltron drabbles, requests, and all other written miscellany.





	1. shiro/lance hogwarts au

**Author's Note:**

> What it says on the tin!
> 
> About this collection:
> 
> • the overall rating is explicit by default, but not all fics will be explicit.  
> • to prevent tag clutter, **all warnings will be posted at the beginning of each fic**. this is why i used the 'Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings'. i honestly don't think i'll hit any of the major archive warnings, but better safe than sorry, right?  
>  • though this work is marked as complete, i will sporadically add new chapters as they are created.  
> • most of these fics are tumblr word vomit!!!! i'm sorry!!!

#### the fall

**notes:** who doesn't want to write a hp au  
**warnings:** shiro is a professor and lance is a seventh year. nothing sexual happens between them, but the implied relationship is romantic.

.

hogwarts au in which shiro, a quidditch star who suffered a career-ending injury, returns to hogwarts to teach charms. there he becomes fast friends with allura—the arithmancy professor—and matt—who teaches herbology—and spends quality time with his cousin/adopted brother, keith. shiro had known from the beginning that returning to hogwarts would be a good move for him; he just hadn't realized how good, until he met lance.

lance, the seventh year gryffindor prefect and quidditch co-captain. lance, who shakes shiro's hand and says, "you are my favorite chaser of all time," as though shiro never stopped playing after the loss of his right arm. lance, the boy who crouches down in front of crying first years and consoles their homesickness. lance, who doesn't care about house loyalties, who buys a bag of sweets at honeydukes to send to his little cousins, who writes insightful essays, who wants to ace his NEWTs and become a healer.

it's lance who finds shiro at the edge of the quidditch pitch, late one autumn night, broom clutched in his hand and a bout of insomnia clinging to his eyes.

"hey," lance says gently. he's dressed in muggle clothing, and his hands are buried deep in his front pockets. "why are you still on the ground?"

shiro's hand tightens around the broomstick. if lance notices, he does not comment. instead, he exhales shakily, as though nervous, and starts talking about the world cup he saw three years ago. shiro remembers it—he had played it, after all—but what had been a loss for him seems like a triumph to lance.

"i made the team that year," lance admits. "and—i hated keith, at first, because he was so much better than me, and because he knew you. so i practiced—and practiced—and practiced, hoping that i could make you proud. which is stupid, right? you don't even know me. i mean, maybe keith mentioned me—we were rivals—but... you didn't know me, not like i knew you, but i had to try."

shiro doesn't fly that night. he doesn't fly any night that he cannot sleep, haunted by the fall no one could stop, even as fall deepens into winter and winter thaws to spring. but lance is beside him every time, their feet planted on the ground, a bubble of artificial warmth cast around them. most of their conversations are small and silly; some are deep and soul-searching; and shiro finds, as the flowers begin to bloom and the semester draws to an end, that he's fallen in love.

"it's about fucking time," matt grouses when shiro confides his feelings. "seriously, i was this close to gluing you two together with a sticking charm until you figured it out—"

"i think what matt is trying to say," allura interrupts, "is that you deserve to be happy, shiro. and if you're happy with lance, then we support you fully."

still, shiro is lance's teacher for another month, and he has to remember himself. so instead of pulling lance into the heat of his embrace and kissing him until they're both breathless, shiro decides to do the next best thing:

he waits at the edge of the quidditch pitch with two brooms in his hand instead of one, and when lance finds him—as he has always found him—shiro says, "fly with me."

and lance does.

.


	2. shiro/lance

#### socks

**notes:** written for kitausu, who said, "super duper in the mood to talk about domestic shance right now"   
**warnings:** n/a

.

they've been married for a little over a year—living together for three, together together for almost five—and lance still sighs when he sees shiro's balled up gym socks littered across the hard floor of their apartment.

"really?" he mutters underneath his breath. he just returned home from work, his body exhausted but his mind still on high alert, and the last thing he wants to do is pick up a smelly sock. so, more loudly, he says, "shiro, you asshole, why are you like this?"

"like what?" shiro yells back.

lance wanders into the second bedroom they've converted into a study. shiro is at his desk, his laptop paused on some random video, while their cats are curled up in his lap. he's dressed down in sweats and a comfy fleece sweater, and his prosthesis is nowhere to be seen. lance walks over and kisses his husband hello, a touch that lingers but does not deepen.

"you left your gross socks on the floor again," lance says when they pull away.

"oh," shiro acknowledges. "sorry." he kisses lance again, quicker. "i'll get them when i'm done."

lance hums, knowing full well that shiro is just as likely to leave them as he is to pick them up. it's one of his strange habits, that he can manage to get all his clothes in the hamper except for his socks; it irritates lance, a little, but at the end of the day, it's a small annoyance. so he lets the subject drop, and instead, presses his cheek to the crown of shiro's skull, and tells him about the craziest thing that happened to him that day as a pediatric nurse.

(and—several days later, when lance gathers the laundry—he picks shiro's gym socks off the floor, unrolls them, and says nothing.)

.


	3. shiro/lance hogwarts au

#### untitled

**notes:** written for undinelance, who said, "has anyone ever considered shancelot because I currently am"  
**warnings:** threesomes, possessiveness

.

i know everyone is probably thinking about this sandwich with lance in the middle—because let’s face it, lance is Thirsty—but i gently propose shiro sitting in lotor’s lap, being split open by a frankly enormous alien dick, while lance sits on shiro’s lap and looks up at him with his pretty blue eyes

“isn’t he beautiful?” lotor purrs into shiro’s ear. lotor has both arms tucked underneath shiro’s, pulling shiro’s biceps back; it immobilizes shiro, more of a grapple than a hold. “riding you like that.”

lance’s legs are thrown over shiro’s hips. over lotor’s hips. he holds onto shiro’s neck to stay seated, his hips rolling obscenely.

“you’re beautiful like this, too,” lotor continues. “helpless.” he tightens his grip as though to prove a point. “mine.”

shiro moans and lance—focused on grinding his prostate against shiro’s cockhead—pauses long enough to peek up at shiro from beneath his lashes. sweat gleams at his hairline, illuminated by the starlight above them.

“mine too,” lance murmurs, squeezing the side of shiro’s throat. “isn’t that right, baby?”

shiro closes his eyes. he imagines he can feel lotor nip the knuckles of lance’s hand just behind him.

“say it, baby,” lance says, shifting. the warm heat of him is as distracting as lotor’s dick inside him, an awareness that never loses its edge. “come on, say it for me.”

“for me,” lotor echoes.

“yours,” shiro chokes. “i’m yours, i’m yours, i'm—”

.


	4. keith-centric hogwarts au

#### a natural perception

**notes:** this is set in the same universe as [this shance microfic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11941347/chapters/26998899)   
**warnings:** mentions of injury and near-death experiences

.

Keith is a Seer who cannot control his visions. He thinks they're dreams for the longest time—as they only come to him when he sleeps—and while a few of them come true, just as many do not. So he blames the dreams on an overactive imagination, and ignores them.

Along with his visions, Keith also has an innate sixth sense for knowing when something is going to happen _right before it happens_. Like that time he handed Pidge a spare quill seconds before her nib snapped. Or that time he pushed grabbed Lance's sleeve on the way to class to stop him from falling, even though the missing step wasn't missing yet. Or when he squinted at the clear sky on a Hogsmeade weekend and told Hunk, "We shouldn't take the long way back. It's going to rain."

Keith chalks his sixth sense up to being naturally perceptive. He feels something in his gut, an instinct he cannot ignore, and when he obeys it, he is always right. If the sensation wasn't so familiar—if it wasn't something he has felt his entire life—he supposes it might be unnerving.

But… sometimes… Keith sees further than the immediate future. Stupid things, mostly. Mundane things. An apartment in a small wizarding community with an overflowing garden in the backyard. An enormous owl the color of midnight picking a treat out of his fingers. An unmade bed, the fall of snow on a windowsill, a backdoor that always sticks. A roofless round room made entirely of polished stone, open to a sky filled with stars and a full moon, his breath rising white into the cold.

Pidge with a pixie cut.

Lance drapped dramatically over his couch.

Hunk swaying softly to an unknown song while he makes dinner.

Shiro falling from his broom, his black and white Quidditch robes like wings around his body—

Keith wakes with a jolt, sitting upright with his hand outstretched as though to catch his cousin. _Just a nightmare,_ he tells himself when he realizes that he's in his bedroom, not in the stands of a stadium. _It's not real. It's not._

But it's the morning of the World Cup, and Shiro is scheduled to play.

"Please be careful," Keith begs of Shiro before the match begins. "Please. I know this sounds crazy but—I have a bad feeling."

Shiro does not laugh at Keith's warning. He never has. He merely pulls Keith into a hug, promises to be careful, and leaves for warm-ups. Keith tries to ignore the sense of wrongness that grows inside his chest as the game commences. It burns like bile when he swallows it down, again and again and again.

Then—

As Shiro throws the Quaffle to his teammate and the roar of the stadium rises in anticipation of another goal—

The opposing team's Beater takes careful aim.

Keith is on his feet before the two referees turn their attention towards the opposite end of field; before the Bludger slams into Shiro's right side; before Shiro screams in pain and lets go of his broom; before the ill-cast cushioning charm over the pitch shatters; before Shiro hits the ground—

But even with his foresight, Keith doesn't make it in time.

Shiro is unresponsive as they take him off the field. If it weren't for the quick work of on-site medical professionals, he would have died of internal hemorrhaging within an hour. Yet while Shiro's life is saved, not even magic can undo the damage done to his right arm, and after months of attempted regrowth, the decision is made to cut it off.

Guilt eats at Keith. He feels like he could have prevented Shiro's accident if he had just been honest with himself about his ability to see the future. Sure, it's terrifying to be sixteen and catch glimpses of what may or may not come, but it _is_ a responsibility, and Keith's willful ignorance cost Shiro. But how is Keith supposed to explain this to Shiro?

To his friends?

To himself?

So—a week after his seventh year begins—Keith makes his way to the Divination room, opens the circular trapdoor, and is greeted by with a cup of tea and an enigmatic smile.

"Welcome," Slav says. "I've been expecting you."

.


	5. shiro/lance modern au

#### the history buff

**notes:** written for fratboyshiro, who said, "shiro gives a whole new meaning to the term “history buff". I NEED HIM IN A SHIRT THAT SAYS HISTORY BUFF WITH HIM FLEXING."  
**warnings:** lance takes a picture of shiro without shiro's knowledge? idk, i'm stretching here

.

"i," lance declares with immense gravity, "have found my soulmate."

and because hunk is a good friend—the best, really—he looks up from his coursework, raises an eyebrow, and encourages lance with a curious, "oh? what's their name?"

"we haven't gotten to that point yet," lance says, as though it doesn't matter. "but hunk—hunk. we are destined to be."

and again—because hunk is the best—he does not mention the half dozen soulmates lance has encountered since fall semester began. he does not mention allura, or nyma, or plaxum, or the nameless pledge at their first frat party. instead, he smiles indulgently, and says, "then how do you know?"

lance's grin grows and he whips out his phone. "this is why," he states before he taps on a photo and hands it to hunk. it's hard to see at first—lance has dropped his phone so many times that the glass screen protector is a spiderweb of cracks—but hunk can see the impression of dark hair, broad shoulders, and a narrow waist. the stranger fits lance's usual type for men. still, there's nothing special about him that—

"oh my god," hunk groans as he sees it. "yeah, you're right. he's definitely your soulmate."

the man in the somewhat blurry picture is flexing goofily at another man, his mouth is stretched wide. it is the same shit-eating expression lance wears when he's told a bad joke, the kind that is on par with the 'HISTORY BUFF' text printed on the man's chest. hunk hands lance his phone back and sighs.

"you're not gonna let this go until you've embarrassed yourself, are you?" hunk asks

"nope," lance affirms. "and i'm not going to embarrass myself. obviously i'm going to stage the perfect meet-cute, go on a few dates, impress him with my puns and—BAM!—say hello to my future husband."

(and because hunk is the best, he will tell this story in three years at lance and shiro's wedding reception, and smirk when lance buries his face, and groans.)

.


	6. kuron/lance

#### a clean shot

**notes:** written for anonymous, who requested the prompt, _"And suddenly, I felt nothing."_  
**warnings:** angst, implied character death, homicide, betrayal

.

The shot is clean. In and out. The clone cries out as it pierces his armor—passes through his shoulder—and exits, pinging against the wall behind him. He staggers but does not crumple, and his mouth goes slack as he realizes what has been done.

"Lance," he gasps, prosthetic hand trembling an inch above the wound. His labored breathing is loud through the comm. "Lance, what—"

"Shut up," Lance commands.

The clone does not listen. He looks away from the bullet hole and up at Lance, asks in bewilderment, "Why did you—"

"The next one is going in your head if you don't stop talking," Lance says. "So, in the interest of staying alive, I would suggest you shut the fuck up."

The clone looks disoriented. Lost. It's the same expression he made when Lance woke him from a nightmare, mere hours ago in the nebulous time between late night and early morning, and it tears at Lance now the way it tore at Lance then.

Lance _hates_ it.

"Lance," the clone pleads. "Lance, why are you—"

The second shot grazes the clone's hip, where the armor separates between thigh and torso for mobility. The biosuit tears and blood blooms crimson against his skin. The clone makes a noise high in the back of his throat that could have been a cry of surprise if it hadn't been bitten back, and this time, he drops to his knees.

"Why?" Lance feels bile rise in the back of his throat. "That's a good question. Why did I shoot you? Simple. I had to incapacitate you. And we both know you have the physical advantage."

"I don't—understand." The clone is panting heavily now, unable to say more than a few syllables at a time. "Why did you—need—to inca—incapaci—citate me?" 

"I don't know," Lance snarls. "Why did you have to fuck me?"

The clone lifts his head. His mouth is twisted and his eyebrows are furrowed, but it is hard to determine if his expression is more confused than pained.

"Was it part of your mission?" Lance continues, spitting each syllable out like acid burning his tongue. "To lull us all into a sense of complacency? To trick us?"

"Trick you?" The clone shakes his head as though to clear it. "Mission? What—mission?"

"I was the easiest, wasn't I?" Lance can hear his own voice tremble even as his hands remain unnervingly steady. "All you had to do was fuck me. Make me think you loved me." He scoffs. "That's so fucking sick. Effective, but sick. I thought it was too good to be true. Guess I was right, wasn't I?"

"Lance—what the hell—are you—saying? What—I didn't— _I love you_ —"

The rage Lance has been holding back since Shiro's betrayal—no, since the clone's betrayal—explodes inside him, as powerful and as blinding as a supernova. He wants to kill the man in front of him; wants to fire a round directly between his glassy gray eyes; wants to see his brain and bone splattered on the floor. He wants it so much that he inhales—

Puts the weight of his finger on the trigger—

Exhales, and—

The shot is clean.

.


	7. kuron/lance

#### the first

**notes:** written for anonymous, who requested the prompt, _"We should do this again sometime."_  
**warnings:** identity porn/dub-con because lance is under the assumption that kuron is shiro

.

Kissing is an oddity of human nature Kuron does not give much thought to. He knows about it, as all of his donor's memories were imprinted onto him, but recalling an impression is not the same as experiencing them. He found out that first time he split his knuckles open and raw—

The first time he ate food that wasn't a vitamin-packed supplement—

The first time he over-exerted himself —

The first time he thought, _Fuck it_ , and pressed his mouth against Lance's.

There is dissonance. Truthfully, there is always dissonance whenever Kuron does anything physical for his first time; he is a copy, after all. A double. A replication down to the arrangement of his cells and the alignment of his molecules. Everything that made his donor has made him, and as with everything, Kuron's experiences are simultaneously old and new.

Like this kiss.

It is not his donor's first kiss, or his second, or his third. His donor has kissed enough to have lost count; to have gained a level of certainty that Kuron draws upon; and to let Kuron know where to put his hands and how to angle his head. His donor's knowledge, however, does not prepare Kuron for the give of Lance's mouth. The warmth of his skin. The smell of him. The noise he makes in the back of his throat and the way he freezes beneath Kuron's touch before jerking away.

Lance's eyes are wide with shock. Kuron loosens his hold on Lance's body but does not take a step back.

"Sorry," Kuron murmurs. He thought that his donor was being overly polite when he asked every partner for explicit permission, but maybe this was another thing Kuron did not quite understand. "I didn't mean to—"

"To what?" Lance rasps, the surprise on his face edging into anger. "Kiss me? Seriously, if you're going to say that you didn't mean to—"

"I didn't mean to startle you," Kuron interrupts, effectively cutting Lance off. Lance's jaw clicks shut. "No. I didn't mean to startle you, or make you uncomfortable. But kiss you?" Kuron holds out his mismatched hands, palms up, and shrugs. "That I meant."

Lance narrows his eyes. Looks at Kuron's supplication, then back. Says, careful and slow, "Why?"

Kuron cannot help the prickle of arousal that zings down his spine, nor can he help the warm curl of a smile on his lips. Lance has always been good at seeing things from a distance, and Kuron can tell Lance knows, deep down, that something is not right.

"Because I wanted to," Kuron answers truthfully. "Because you're strong. Intelligent. Beautiful."

Still Lance hesitates, his reluctance born of unignorable and ineffable instinct. _He doesn't want my reasons,_ Kuron thinks sharply. _He wants my donor's._

Kuron's donor has wanted Lance since he woke up in a desert cabin and stared at the horizon until the dawning sun turned it pink. Since he landed in a pool of shallow cave water and noticed the blunt edges of Lance's knuckles. Since he watched Lance swing his narrow hips and run towards trouble with the lean length of his legs.

"I wanted you since the beginning," Kuron says, voicing the quiet secrets his donor has kept hidden. It is not hard. "Maybe it was just physical in the beginning, but it's more, now." A shade of fondness darkens Kuron's words. "It's more because you're brave, so brave, because you're resourceful, because you care. Because you do your best even when you don't think your best is good enough. And I—I'm tired of telling myself that I can't have you. For what?" Kuron scoffs. "For the good of the team?"

"Our team," Lance corrects.

"Keith's team," Kuron clarifies.

This was his donor's excuse. Leadership is a sacrifice for balance. It is harmony in exchange for restraint. It is fairness tempered by extra time in the shower, jerking it to hollow daydreams and empty hopes. But Kuron, for all his similarities, is not his donor. He is not the pilot of the Black Lion; he is not the leader of Voltron; and he is certainly not the selfless moron who deliberately ignored what he wants for the sake of synergy.

"I've always wanted you," Kuron murmurs, a truth for himself and for his donor. "But now—after all that has changed—now I can tell you."

And when Kuron offers such honesty, Lance—brilliant, burning Lance—does nothing. It makes Kuron want him more. Lance cannot know that Kuron is a copy—Kuron is too close to the original to be suspected—but he can wonder why Kuron grabbed his thin wrist, pulled him into a darkened corner, and kissed him without warning.

"So," Kuron asks, reaching up with his prosthetic hand and curling it against the side of Lance's slender neck. "May I?"

The reluctance Lance has shown since the beginning does not fade. Instead, it pales as Lance submits to Kuron's wants, as he closes his eyes and leans into Kuron's touch, as he parts his damp mouth and pleads, "Shiro."

And with a grin, Kuron takes.

.


	8. kuron/lance

#### the last

**notes:** written as prequel of sorts [to this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11941347/chapters/27204339). requested (sorta) by elenorasweet, who commented on the original story, "what happened right before this, how did Lance know, what HAPPENED???"  
**warnings:** identity porn/dub-con because lance is under the assumption that kuron is shiro

.

01\. When Lance leaves the common before anyone else that night, Shiro follows him like a shadow.

“Are you escorting me?” Lance asks with a grin. “I’m not that tired, you know. I’m not going to fall over in the middle of the hallway.”

The joke falls flat. There’s a strange look on Shiro’s face, a non-expression that Lance is unfamiliar with. It makes him uneasy and he is unsure of how to proceed. Lance’s hesitation does not last long, however, as Shiro stops and grabs his wrist. His prosthesis is body warm and unyielding, a shackle of alien metal, a hold that is almost as intense as the determination in his eyes. It is at odds with the quiet darkness of the hallway, the lights of the castleship dimmed in an approximation of twilight.

“I want you,” Shiro says, then, as the moment swells. “I know I shouldn’t but—” His grip tightens imperceptibly. Though it is not enough to hurt, it is enough to make Lance aware of the power coiled inside the prosthesis. “I’m tired of fighting.”

The kiss that follows is a surprise. Lance gasps against the sudden appearance of Shiro’s mouth against his own, and he freezes, his whole body stiff. Shiro pulls back immediately. 

“No,” Lance protests with a quick jerk of his head. “Please. Shiro. I didn’t mean…”

This time, when Shiro leans forward, Lance meets him halfway.

.

02\. Lance exhales and fires in quick succession, one-two-three. The rifle kicks back against his shoulder. He’ll have a bruise, maybe, but he doesn’t think about the future as the sentries crumple in the distance.

“Damn,” Shiro murmurs next to him, low enough that the comm doesn’t pick it up. “Is it bad that I find that hot?”

Lance turns his attention briefly to the other man, familiar in his paladin armor. He may not pilot the Black Lion anymore—a burden Keith keeps—but he is far from inactive, joining the team planetside as often as he offers advice from the helm in the castleship. Lance smirks. Inactivates his comm with a tap. Stands, steps into Shiro’s space, and purrs, “You should see what else I can do.”

Shiro inhales sharply, his gaze skittering down the line of Lance’s body. There’s a dark promise in the gray of his hooded eyes, and it makes Lance shiver.

“Later,” Shiro croaks. 

“Roger that,” Lance replies, and turns his common back on. Right now they have a mission to focus on—a Galra base to infiltrate—but later—

Later.

.

  
03\. The muscles in Lance’s back benefit from the heat of the water, the stress and tension in them slowly unraveling as he basks in the mineral bath. Shiro sits behind him, his chest solid and grounding.

“This is nice,” Lance murmurs. Nearby, the other paladins are talking quietly with one another; their voices carry over the large natural pool, but the words are distorted. They are as indecipherable as the cry of unknown insects further in the surrounding forest, on this alien planet where they have taken this brief sabbatical.

“Yeah,” Shiro says back, curling his arm around Lance’s thin waist. “It is.”

“I wish it could be like this always.” Lance tilts his head back against Shiro’s chest, where the swell of muscle edges into his collarbones. Above are an unfamiliar arrangement of stars, beautiful and foreign. “Quiet. Peaceful.”

Shiro hums.

“Don’t you?” Lance asks.

Shiro’s free hand—his prosthesis—runs up Lance’s side: from knee to hip, across his torso to the opposite shoulder, to the tender hollow beneath the hinge of Lance’s jaw. He presses down briefly, a weight not unlike a kiss, and whispers,

“You know it can’t.”

.

04\. Laughter bubbles out of Lance’s throat as Shiro grabs his hips and rolls, rearranging their bodies so Lance is straddling him. He feels light, buoyed by the indulgence in Shiro’s smile, and it warms him to the once empty chambers of his heart.

“This okay?” Shiro asks, flexing his hands against the narrow bone of Lance’s pelvis.

“Yeah,” Lance says. “It’s perfect.”

.

05\. Shiro wakes, sometimes, with a snarl caged behind the bone of his teeth and the ghosts of his experiences haunting his mind. He shakes and sweats. Sometimes he curls into Lance and cries silently; other times he gets out of bed and paces, staring at his metal hand as he pulls the false digits into a fist.

Tonight, when Lance is woken by the sharp and sudden movement of the body next to him, Shiro does neither.

“Babe?” Lance slurs, tongue sleep heavy. “You okay?”

Shiro sits immobile. The blankets are pooled around his naked waist. He stares blankly ahead, gray eyes glassy and oddly unfocused. Concern scrapes the last vestiges of sleep from Lance’s brain and he sits up.

Reaches out.

Shiro’s skin feels cold beneath his palm.

“They did something to me,” Shiro says a moment, a minute, an hour later. “I keep—I keep seeing myself on a table—and this stupid headache—”

Shiro makes a noise of frustration, squeezing his eyes shut and clutching his temple. It hurts Lance to see him in such deep and obvious pain, and he knows he would take all if Shiro’s burdens if it meant that Shiro could be happy and whole. But he can’t. All he can do is let his hand drift down Shiro’s arm, tangle his fingers with Shiro’s, and hold on.

.

00\. Over a private comm, Keith says, “Lance, he’s a clone. You need to immobilize him.”

There were clues. Hints. Small glimpses of an irrefutable truth Lance had chosen to ignore until Keith confirmed it, and now Lance must endure the howl of a thousand emotions as they rise up inside him like bile.

“Roger,” Lance croaks.

Keith does not do Lance the disservice of asking him if he’s alright. Instead, there is silence as Lance raises his rifle—

Thinks, _I should’ve known_ —

And shoots the imposter in the shoulder.

.


	9. kuron/lance

#### a battle and a war

**notes:** written for anonymous, who requested, "could you do one where kuron and shiro get into a quarrel over lance?"  
**warnings:** unrequited shance, jealousy 

.

Shiro has gotten into many different fights over the course of his life. Brief tussles when he was a boy. Half-hearted shoves as he grew into adolescence. Teenage shows of dominance. Routine spars at the Garrison. Combat in the Galra gladiatorial ring.

But this—

This is not a silly argument on the playground.  
This is not the fist fight he ended when he was fifteen.  
This is not being carefully thrown to the mat by his aikido instructor.  
This is not the numbing challenge of being the Champion.  
This is not the necessary violence of intergalactic war.

This… This is something Shiro has not encountered before.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro apologizes, his tone careful despite the rage rattling between his ribs. “I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“I think you did,” his clone replies with a smirk. It’s odd to see such sharp arrogance on a mirror image of himself, to have first hand knowledge of what that expression feels like. “But it does bear repeating, doesn’t it?”

Shiro does not move as Kuron takes a step forward into his personal space, leaving no more than a bare inch between their bodies. Shiro can smell Kuron’s training induced sweat as Kuron lowers his voice to a purr and reiterates,

“Stay away from Lance. I fucked him first, so he’s mine.”

The thread holding Shiro’s aggression back cannot take the added strain of jealousy. It snaps and—with the roar of blood making static in his ears—Shiro shifts his weight forward, and swings his fist at his clone’s smug face.

Normally, Shiro wouldn’t rise to such obvious bait, but since his return, he’s been painfully aware of how close Lance and Kuron are. While Lance had been as surprised as the others when Kuron’s identity had been revealed, it was him who frequented Kuron’s cell the most; who shouted and cried and forgave; who discovered Kuron’s true motivations, as strange and nihilistic as they were; and who convinced the team that Kuron could be trusted.

It was also Lance who sat next to Kuron, during meals and during downtime in the common, and Lance whose touch lingered on Kuron’s shoulder—on Kuron’s chest—on Kuron’s hip. The others said nothing about this odd familiarity. Perhaps it was because Lance was a tactile person. Perhaps it was because they had become used to it. Or perhaps it was because they weren’t Shiro, who knew every one of Lance’s touches like a greedy dragon knew every piece of treasure in its hoard.

Not that it matters. Whatever the cause is, the effect is this:

When Kuron says he was intimate with Lance—a desire that has grown secretly in Shiro since the nebulous beginning—Shiro knows the words are much more truth than taunt.

“Ah,” Kuron laughs as he dodges Shiro’s undercut. “Someone’s jealous.”

The fight begins sloppily and devolves further within seconds. Shiro and Kuron are matched in height and weight, strength and skill, and every offense is blocked immediately by a mirrored defense. The only difference between them is that Shiro’s anger is Kuron’s amusement. It is an advantage that allows Shiro to tackle Kuron to the unforgiving floor of the training room and land one solid hit.

Kuron grunts with pain as Shiro’s knuckles crack against his jaw. The tender inside of his cheek gets cut against his teeth and blood immediately stains the white enamel bright red. Then Kuron laughs, low and dark, as though being punched were a victory.

“Think that’s funny?” Shiro snaps.

“Yeah,” Kuron admits. “I think it’s hilarious.”

Shiro has wanted to kill before. It is not an unfamiliar feeling. It feels ugly and primal, yet somehow just, as if it were Shiro’s indisputable right to decide death for another. The same sensation fills him now as he lifts his clenched hand, and—

A pair of strong arms wrap around Shiro from behind in an immobilizing hold. He is hauled off Kuron’s prone form and—still filled with the unmet desire to see his clone’s brain and bone spattered across the pale ground—Shiro struggles.

“Come on, man!” Hunk protests, his voice right next to Shiro’s ear. “Don’t do this!”

Shiro barely hears him. He also barely hears Keith, who physically steps between him and Kuron, and half-shouts, “Shiro, what the hell?” He is too focused on Kuron—

And Lance.

Shiro watches as Lance kneels by Kuron’s side. Watches as Lance tentatively touches the tender skin of Kuron’s jaw. Watches as Kuron sits up and wraps his prosthetic hand gently around Lance’s thin wrist. It is a reassuring gesture—one that Shiro recognizes immediately as something he does for the people he cares about—and at the sight, all of Shiro’s rage disappears.

Shiro breathes out hard through his nose and slumps back into Hunk’s solid body, limp with realization and defeat.

This is a fight Shiro has already lost.

.


	10. shiro/lance

#### the beach

**notes:** written for kaywrites-shit, who requested the prompt, "don't die one me—please".  
**warnings:** major character death 

.

near lance's childhood home is a beach, ugly and uncrowded. it is only accessible by foot and barely a stone's throw in length, but the ocean waters are calm and the drop-off is far from the shoreline. encouraged by his older siblings, this is the beach where lance had learned to swim.

"you weren't born swimming?" shiro asks, valiantly attempting humor despite his desperate hold on lance's weakening hand.

"to hear my mama—i was," lance says. his sentences are chopped up by his struggled breathing. "but no. magda and joaco—they took turns—leading me out. when i was older—i snuck out—going whenever i could." lance briefly closes his eyes. "i wanted to show you. when we got back."

"when we get back," assures shiro.

lance cannot help but smile. it is a faint thing, diluted by the pain spreading outward from the wound in his abdomen, and it looks more like a grimace. lance doesn't care. what matters is that shiro knows about the beach, and the day lance wanted to spend with him when they returned to earth.

"when you get back—i want you to sleep in," lance instructs. "no alarms. nothing. i want you to—wake up naturally. and when you wake up—i want you to—to lay in bed. like really—really lay in. be too hot under—the blankets. get bored. stay until it hurts. then go downstairs. let mama feed you. have papi—make you café cubano. not manuel. he is not—manuel always burns— _ahhh_ —!"

a new throb of pain temporarily derails lance. he hisses, an instinctive response.

"shh," shiro hushes as he reaches up to carefully stroke lance's sweat-damp hair. lance's head is pillowed on shiro warm thigh, his body straight and supine on the ground. "lance, please save your strength. the others will be here soon, and—"

"and if they're not?" pain and the dismal prospect of the inevitable sharpen lance's tongue more than he means. he has been hurt before, many times to many degrees, yet none of those incidents have been as severe as this one. "what then?"

lance stares up at shiro. shiro's expression is blank, but his eyes—his terribly familiar and beloved eyes—betray his emotions.

_please_ , shiro's gray gaze pleads. _please, not now. please, not this way._

again, lance briefly hides himself behind the dark curtain of his eyelids. he would do everything and anything in his power to do as shiro asks, but even he cannot defy death.

"i want you to—to go down to the beach," lance continues. as though he had not been interrupted. as though his vision isn't turning to static from blood loss. as though he isn't struggling to form words with his numb tongue. "take a lunch. bring a towel. some sunscreen. i want you to—to spend an afternoon—half in the water—half on the sand. i want you to eat—when you're hungry. sleep when you're tired. forget what time it is until—until the sun goes down—and make—make a fire. listen to it. the fire. the ocean. look up at the stars and—"

_remember me,_ lance does not say. cannot say. his throat is thick from fear and unshed tears. he wants to scream and rage against the unfairness of the situation even while he accepts it. there is nothing more he can do.

nothing more shiro can do.

nothing, but this.

"okay," shiro whispers when it becomes obvious that lance is not going to speak. "we can—we can go to the beach. when we return from earth. but it—it has to be you and me, okay?"

"shiro…"

"no, lance, no, listen. you have to—" shiro's voice breaks and his ungloved hand slides down from lance's skull to his naked cheek. "i don't know where to go. you have to take me, okay? i won't—i can't—please, lance—don't die on me, please—i can't find the beach without you—"

but lance has already closed his eyes.  


.


	11. shiro/lance

#### a labor of love

**notes:** inspired by dadboyshiro's post on tumblr: _shance knitting au where lance is a college student who spends his free time volunteering at a group home/outpatient pt clinic leading a knitting class mostly for the elderly (who all totally love him and think he’s the most handsome kid ever) and the disabled, and shiro is a newly-discharged veteran, still trying to get used to his prosthetic, who comes in every week for the “practice” but honestly he has no idea what the hell he’s doing and why did his caseworker think knitting would be a good idea, oh god the yarn?? is ???? a giant knot???? please help him??? He’s So embarrassed??? But lance is just like ‘oh no he’s hot’_  
**warnings:** none 

.

Lance's favorite stitch is the seed stitch. He can obviously do more complex things like cables, brioche knitting, and patterns that involve using four or more colors at once, but the knit-one purl-one rhythm of the seed stitch is soothing. It allows him to turn his brain off and chat to the people around him. He's so adept at it that he barely needs to pay attention when he starts a new row.

(Also, the texture of the seed stitch is beautiful. It looks really nice when it's finished.)

Shiro, on the other hand, thinks knitting is akin to magic. He hasn't quite gotten the hang of how to purl—always inserting the needle backwards into the loop and twisting his stitch—but how is he supposed to figure out when Lance is _right there_ , being wondeful and beautiful?

(But Shiro keeps coming back, drawn into the knitting circle by Lance's smile and the elderly ribbing he receives about his enormous crush.)

This goes on for months. Then the holidays come, and Lance gives Shiro a present before he and his family go to Cuba for a week.

"I didn't get you anything," Shiro blurts as he takes the gift. He doesn't say it wasn't for lack of trying, but everything he thought of was either too much or not enough.

Lance laughs. "I wasn't expecting anything in return," he teases. "Just don't open it until Christmas, okay?"

For Shiro, Christmas is soft. Quiet. He calls his mom and dad. Has late lunch with Keith. Turns the television onto feel good movies. Takes the few presents he received from underneath his small tree—the pot still encased in cheap reflective paper—and opens Lance's gift.

It's a sweater.

Correction: it's a pale gray sweater made of a fine weight merino wool. Bold cables run down the chest and the sleeves are ribbed two-by-two. A hand stitched label rests on the back of the collar, a stylized "L" Shiro has seen many times before. It's a fantastic piece, Shiro knows, but his brain is stuck on the fact that _Lance made him a sweater_. Handmade sweaters are a labor of love, he knows now, and even the simplest ones take days.

Weeks.

Months.

Shiro doesn't know how long he sits there, holding the garment in his hands. He knows, when he tries it on, that it will be warm and that it will fit perfectly. Lance doesn't do things by halves. And—as far as declarations go—this is akin to Lance yelling, "I love you!" at the top of his lungs.

With a blush, Shiro puts the sweater down. Finds the expensive sea-silk-and-linen yarn he bought a long time ago and the right sized needles. He knows what to get Lance, now, and will finish it before Lance gets back in less than four days.

After all, nothing says 'I love you too' like finally mastering the purl stitch.

.


	12. kolivan/lance

#### the intent

 **notes:** inspired by this exchange: 

> puppetmaster55: _Imagine Lance knitting Kolivan a sweater and making it match with the Blade aesthetic, and it’s the softest and most adorable thing Kolivan’s ever seen or worn_  
>    
>  wajjs: _Totally wild idea here, but what if Kolivan takes this as a courting ritual, so he decides to learn how to knit in order to woo Lance even though they are already dating_

  
 **warnings:** none

.

When Kolivan was young—when he was little more than fire inside a mortal shell—he scoffed at the idea of courting. Courting was an archaic and asinine ritual. It was for the elitist, not the proletariat, and Kolivan, who had been born in the furtherest recesses of the Empire, was on the lowest rung of his society. He had no time for courting. There was so much he wanted to accomplish—so much he wanted to change—that romance remained the furthest thing from his mind.

But Kolivan is no longer young. His anger is balanced by his patience. He has accomplished more than he ever thought possible. So when his companion gives him a handmade article of clothing—

"It's a sweater," Lance tells Kolivan. His grin is small and warm, and his eyelids are lowered over his ocean-dark irises. "I know how cold your quarters get."

Kolivan is not foolish to believe that Lance understands courtship. His planet is beyond the expansion of the Empire, and he cannot know the gravity of such a gift. He cannot know what he offers. If he did…

"Babe?" Lance says, breaking through Kolivan's contemplation. "You okay?"

Though Lance is still holding the sweater, his teeth have worried into the swell of his bottom lip, unsure. Kolivan curses inwardly. Lance may not know the cultural significance of what he offers, but the affection in the gesture is universal. It would be remiss of Kolivan to deny that.

"My apologies," Kolivan says. Then—in a way that would have made his younger self rage—he takes the garment from Lance's hands and intones, "I thank you for this gift."

Lance's smile returns. And Kolivan…

Kolivan wonders.

.

The sweater is a dark, inky blue with a geometric pattern across the chest. It fits Kolivan well: big enough in the shoulders, narrow enough in the waist, and fitted but not tight.

When he is alone, it keeps Kolivan warm.

When he is alone, it makes Kolivan think.

.

Courtship is rigid rules and strict traditions. It has no place in the chaos of war and the vastness of space. Kolivan knows this. Yet this knowledge means nothing when he sees a stretch of _shuvuu_ silk during a recon mission in system F-D-7.

"How much?" he asks the vendor.

The vendor responds, "More than you have."

It is frivolous, Kolivan believes, to pay for luxury over functionality. _Shuvuu_ silk is one of these opulences—as fragile as bird bone and as light as air—but the color is beyond description. Once Kolivan imagines how it would look as a robe opened against Lance's skin…

"Try me," Kolivan growls.

.

"I have something for you," Kolivan says, one unimportant night, when the Castle of Lions rests on a plateau of red rock and sage brush. The uninhabited world they rest upon is still and quiet, and a set of planetary rings glow against the night sky.

"Yeah?" Lance acknowledges, turning his gaze from the splendor. "Like a present?"

"Of sorts." Kolivan steps onto the balcony. Goes to Lance's side. Runs his free hand from Lance's temple to the point of his chin, and tilts Lance's face up. "It will be yours, if you accept it."

Lance raises an eyebrow and asks, "Isn't that usually how a present works?"

Kolivan cannot stop the wry grin that twists his mouth. Lance has the ability to cut to the heart of any matter: with a look, with a word, with a bullet. It is one of the many things Kolivan has grown desperately fond of in their time together.

"Yes," Kolivan elaborates. "But this has… intent."

"What kind of intent?"

"The Galra have a tradition called courtship," Kolivan explains. "It is many things, including the exchange of gifts. I have always thought the formality to be frivolous. Wasteful." Kolivan pauses to pull the gift from where he kept it held behind his back. He holds it between his and Lance's bodies, and murmurs, "Now I know it is the barest fraction of what I would give to you if I could."

Lance does not take the gift. Instead, he surges upwards; wraps his arms around Kolivan's neck; and kisses him sweetly until the robe falls to the ground, forgotten.

.


	13. shiro/lance modern au

#### something silver and sapphire

**notes:** written for candywii666, who requested, _how about some fluffy shance surprise lunch date (maybe proposal??)_  
**warnings:** none

.

It's been a hard week for the both of them. Lance has taken three cumulative finals in as many days, and Shiro has been dealing with an influx of panicked, pleading students in addition to administering his own tests. But the week is over, now, and the tight knot of anxiety that Lance has carried in his chest for the last month has begun to unravel.  


"Knock knock," Lance says as he swings by Shiro's office, around one on the last real day of the semester. Shiro—dressed in his usual ensemble of gray slacks and pale button-up—looks up from his desk.

"Hey," Shiro greets.

"Whatcha up to?"

Shiro sighs. Leans back in his chair. Pinches the bridge of his nose beneath the frame of his clear plastic glasses and mutters, "Contemplating why I chose this as a career path."

"Well," Lance says fondly as he steps into Shiro's cramped office. He knows Shiro loves his job as a history professor, even with the stress. "How about a small break?" He holds up the lunch bag he packed before heading over. It's little more than sandwiches, chips, and a couple cans of coke, and he tells Shiro as much.

"It's the gesture," Shiro says. "You thought of me. It's sweet."

The tips of Lance's ears burn. They may have been dating for three years—ever since the moment Lance left Shiro's _Introduction to World History_ class—but Shiro still manages to make Lance's heart beat faster with his generosity and small, eye-crinkling smiles.

They eat at Shiro's desk and talk about a variety of little things. How their mornings were. If they have time to catch the new superhero movie tomorrow night. Shiro's dad and the picture he sent them of his ever-changing garden. Their enormous maine coons, Blue and Bee.

"What time are you going to be home?" Lance asks when they're finished. He crumples sandwich wrappers and the chip bag into a ball and tosses it into the trashcan by the door.

"As soon as I finish with this stack of essays." Shiro pats a stack of papers. "Probably around six or seven?"

"Okay, cool. I'm gonna hit the gym with Hunk and Keith at three. I was thinking ramen tonight? With a side of ramen?"

"Sounds good to me."

Lance kisses Shiro, a quick dry thing that lands more on the side of his mouth than in the center, before standing up and rounding the corner of Shiro's desk. He's nearly to the door, his hand inches from the knob, when Shiro blurts,

"Lance, wait."

Lance stops and looks over his shoulder, one eyebrow cocked. "Yeah?"

Shiro's face is contorted in confusion. His gaze flickers to the mess of papers on his desk. His lips turn down into a frown. Then—with one short nod to himself—his expression solidifies into determination.

"I've been thinking about how to do this for a while now," Shiro explains as he opens the top drawer in his desk. Lance knows from experience that the drawer is no more than a chaotic mess of cheap pens, post-it notes, and paperclips. "And I was planning on asking you when we visited my parents in a few weeks—there's this state park with a lake I know you'd like—but I—I love you, more than I know how to explain."

Shiro is very suddenly on one knee in front of Lance. There's a tiny black box in his hand, oddly disproportionate to the size of the future it contains.

"I don't want to wait anymore," Shiro says. "To let you know how much you mean to me. To let the world know how much you mean to me."

"Shiro—"

"Will you marry me?" Shiro asks as he opens the box. Lance barely sees it—something silver and sapphire—because he is too busy looking at Shiro. "And be mine for the rest of our lives?"

Lance feels the prick of tears. His throat swells. This is not how he imagined being proposed to, in this tiny space with its threadbare carpet and the permanent smell of old coffee, but none of those things matter. What does matter is the man before him, and the honesty and hope he sees in his perfectly gray eyes.

"Oh, Shiro," Lance murmurs as he curls one trembling hand around Shiro's cheek. "I already am."

.


	14. shiro/lance college au

#### a hot, hot second

**notes:** written for anonymous, who requested, _Ooooh shance and “quick my ex is coming pretend to be my boyfriend” leading to “whoops this was a bad idea bc we’re both in pining hell”. <3_  
**warnings:** none

.

Matt’s house parties are a thing of campus legend. Normally, Shiro stays away—often crashing in the quiet sanctity of Allura’s guest bedroom—but that night, Matt pressed a beer bottle into Shiro’s hand, grinned, and said, “You’re gonna want to stay.”

Four beers and a handful of pretzels later, the house is packed. Shiro has a gentle buzz going on as he wanders in slow circuits around the main floor. The edges of his world are soft. He is removed from the thumping music and tight circles of half-shouted conversation, but it doesn’t make him feel excluded or anxious. He just sips his beer until it’s gone, then goes into the kitchen to get another.

Shiro is popping the cap with his prosthesis—a trick he learned as a freshman—when someone grabs his left arm.

Startled, Shiro swears, “What the fu—”

“Hey,” the same someone interrupts. “Sorry to uhh—sorry to do this so suddenly, but I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend for a hot second. A really, really hot second. A scorching second. Think surface of the sun times ten.”

Shiro meets a pair of familiar blue eyes as the cap on his beer bottle clatters onto the cheap laminate countertop. It’s Lance, Keith’s roommate, the undergrad that Shiro has been secretly crushing on since fall.

“What?” Shiro asks. Not only is his vague inebriation making the edges of his brain fuzzy, but he’s having a hard time focusing on anything except the full press of Lance’s chest against his tricep. “Sorry, I'm… what?”

“My ex,” Lance elaborates as he glances over his shoulder. Shiro follows his gaze, but there are too many people for Shiro to determine who Lance is referring to. “Well—sorta my ex, if you call a couple bad dinners and some texting _dates_ , which I don’t, but he _did_ and I lied and told him I had a new boyfriend so he would get a hint and he’s here and I don’t actually have a new boyfriend so I was wondering if you could—if you could pretend? For a second?”

Lance’s words come out of his mouth so quickly that Shiro is amazed that he caught the majority of them.

“So?” Lance bites his lip, the edges of his white teeth worrying the pink skin red. “Will you?”

“Uhh, yeah,” Shiro says. “Yeah, I can do that.”

Shiro’s tongue feels fat and stupid inside his mouth. He realizes, in a distant part of his mind, that he sounds less excited at the prospect than he would be if he were completely sober. Luckily, Lance doesn’t seem to mind, because his anxious moue turns into a brilliant smile the moment Shiro accepts his proposition.

“You’re seriously the best,” Lance says. Then, after another darting look into the throng of party-goers, he adds, “Please don’t hate me for this.”

“Hate you for what?”

“This.”

Lance kisses him. His mouth is yielding and warm, and his long fingers are gentle against Shiro’s jaw. Shiro falters for a heartbeat, surprised. His lack of a reaction lessens Lance’s confidence and he begins to move away. It’s supposed to be pretend, Shiro knows, but the thought of not being able to kiss Lance back is absolutely unacceptable.

Shiro sets his bottle harder than he intends. Beer sloshes onto the counter. He doesn’t care. He turns towards Lance and pulls their bodies together: chest to chest, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. Lance chokes, a beautiful, needy sound. A wave of possessiveness floods hotly through Shiro’s veins. He wraps an arm around Lance’s slender waist, fingers digging in, and runs his begging tongue against the closed seam of Lance’s mouth.

Lance shudders—

Anchors his hands on Shiro’s broad shoulders—

And opens.

.

They make out against the kitchen counter for longer than is necessary to convince Lance’s ex that they’re dating. Indeed, the entire house probably thinks they’re dating by the time they pull apart and laugh breathlessly against each other’s skin.

“Wow.” Lance gasps as his fingers steadily scratch at the base of Shiro’s skull. “Wow, Shiro, that was—that was really nice.”

“Yeah,” Shiro agrees.

“Thank you for—uhh—thanks for helping me out there.” Lance’s flush deepens and his voice gets smaller. “I’m sorry I jumped you like that.”

“Don’t be.”

Their eyes meet. The deep, unwavering blue of Lance’s irises was one of the first things Shiro noticed about him, after his bare chest and sharp hipbones.

(“He likes to wander around half-naked,” Keith grumbled as he and Shiro made their way to the campus cafeteria. “I’ve told him like, ten times since we moved in to put a freaking shirt on.”)

“Really?” Lance asks. “Because—Shiro, I’m not gonna lie, I’ve had a massive crush on you since—well, since I laid eyes on you, and you’re probably the best kisser on the planet. Not that I’m biased or anything. But you gotta—look, if this isn't—if you, uhh, don’t want me to think this is more than what it is, you’re gonna have to tell me right now.”

“Or?”

Lance bites his lip again. He’s hesitant, Shiro can tell, but neither of them have moved more than a few inches since their long kiss ended.

“Or you’re going to have a real boyfriend instead of a pretend one,” Lance says.

Shiro smiles. Tightens his hold on Lance’s waist. Whispers, “I’d like that,” and tilts his face back towards Lance’s for another kiss.

This time, they meet halfway.

.


	15. shiro/lance/kuron

#### big baby blues

**notes:** inspired by kitausu-nsfw's post: _Shiro and Kuron bonding over how hard it is to tell Lance “No” when he turns those big baby blues on them and says “Daddy, please” in the sweetest voice with an obscene pout to his lips._  
**warnings:** post-coital daddy kink discussion?

.

Lance sleeps quietly between them, his thin rib cage a gentle rise and fall. His soft mouth is parted—the shiny, abused red of earlier having faded to pink—and his hair falls over his forehead. Ryou brushes the strand back.

“It's getting long," Shiro murmurs. He is on the other side of Lance's lean body, his chest protectively against Lance's back. Like Ryou, he is on his side, elbow planted on the mattress, his jaw propped in his palm.

"I like it," Ryou whispers back. "It suits him."

Shiro makes a noise of affirmation. Not that he needs to. He and Ryou were the same person for a very long time, and Ryou knows exactly how Lance's growing hair makes him feel. He also knows how much Shiro likes threading his fingers through the curls—how he likes to pull—how he likes the way it makes Lance _whine_ —

“He needs sleep,” Shiro interrupts.  


Ryou laughs and counters, “Like you weren’t thinking it.”

They grin at each other, identical slashes of mirth on their sated faces. It isn’t strange, not anymore, to be a copy—if anything, it’s liberating—and the struggles they’ve overcome are worth what they’ve gained.

“Besides,” Shiro says, squeezing Lance’s slender hip beneath the sheets. “Lance seems to like it.”  


“Us spoiling him rotten?”  


“The attention.”  


Ryou makes the same noise Shiro just made, a hum that vibrates low in his throat. His flickers over Lance’s sharp features—his upturned nose, his angular chin, his expressive eyebrows—before rising and meeting Shiro’s understanding gray gaze.

“I blame you, you know,” Ryou says. There is no judgment or heat in his words, merely the tease of an old truth. “You’re the one with the unfortunate daddy kink. You’re the reason he has us wrapped around his finger. All he has to do is look at us with those big baby blues of his and—bam—next thing you know, we’re doing exactly what he wants.”

Between them, Lance sighs. Shifts. They watch silently as he wriggles, tilting his hips further into Shiro’s lap and his face firmly into Ryou’s chest. Ryou strokes Lance’s broad and bony shoulder and Shiro grips his thigh.

"You know,” Shiro says, “I think I’m okay with that.”

“Yeah,” Ryou echoes. “Me too.”  


.


	16. shiro/kuron

#### together

**notes:** i have no idea guys, i just... really like clonecest.   
**warnings:** clonecest? selfcest?

.

Shiro hasn't thought about it. Well—he's thought about it. Minimally. He's been on the internet and he's knows he's taken a quiz or a poll. But checking a variation of 'yes' to the "Would you fuck your clone?" question isn't the same.

It isn't. Because... who really believes they're going to meet their clone?

Certainly not Shiro.

Then again, Shiro never thought he would encounter an alien species while traveling to the outer rim of his solar system. Or be forced to fight for the amusement of said alien species. Or form a spiritual bond with a pseudo-magical metal lion on the astral plane. Fact is, Shiro has done a lot of things he has never even _imagined_ —so really, what's strange about this?

"Calm down," Ryou says as he strips out of his shirt. The black material peels away from his torso, exposing ivory-pale skin and pink-puckered scars. "You're over-thinking this."

"And you're not?" Shiro returns.

"Of course I am." Ryou's hands drops to his pants, popping the button and pulling down the zipper. He flashes a smirk at Shiro, more teeth than kindness, and says, "Did we check the "I would do weird shit with my clone that I wouldn't do with other people" option or the "It's basically the same as masturbating" one?"

It's disconcerting, sometimes, when Ryou refers to the past, using 'we' and 'us' instead of 'I' and 'me'. It implies that Ryou always been inside of Shiro which, in some strange and deeply philosophical way, he has. 

"If you can't remember, what makes you think I do?"

"I know you can't remember." Ryou pushes his pants down his thick thighs and toned calves, then kicks the garment in the general direction of the hamper. The muscles of his torso shift beneath his skin. Objectively Shiro knows that he's handsome—that they're handsome—but it's easier to see on Ryou than it is to see in a mirror.

"So you're just making conversation?"

"Distracting you," Ryou responds. "But you already knew that."

Shiro huffs. He did. Perhaps, if he weren't so introspective, being one of two copies would be more like having a twin than... whatever this is.

"So," Ryou asks as he plants his hands on his hips. "What's it gonna be? Are you going to sit there and internally debate how narcissistic this feels, or are you gonna get undressed and fuck me?"

Shiro looks at Ryou, clad in nothing but his standard issue black boxer briefs, and says,

"I think you already know that answer to that."

.


	17. shiro/kuron

#### aftermath

**notes:** I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO I AM ANYMORE   
**warnings:** clonecest? selfcest? and sex toys!

.

Shiro is keyed up.

Disappointed.

_Angry._

True, the battle was a victory for Voltron, but it dragged on for so long and lost too many lives to feel like anything but a loss. Alone in his tiny fighter ship, he allows himself a moment of frustration—clenching his fists and forcing out exhales that threaten to become a roar, or a sob—before carefully putting a lid on the worst of his emotions and getting up.

The other paladins are already in the hangar. They stand in a silent half circle. Allura and Keith are angled towards one another, the space between them thin; Pidge has her small hand on Keith's shoulder; and Lance has one hand threaded through Allura's while he leans most of his upper body against Hunk. All of their faces are worn with tiredness and disappointment, no doubt feeling the same as Shiro.

"It hasn't been like this in a while," Ryou murmurs as he moves in next to Shiro, tugging off his helmet and holding it against his hip. His expression and posture mirror Shiro's; if not for the violet accents of his armor and the shorter cut of his hair, they would be identical. "Not since..."

Ryou makes a gesture with his free hand. It's vague and should be impossible to interpret, but Shiro knows what Ryou means.

"Yeah," Shiro murmurs. He pitches his voice low so the other paladins won't be able to hear him. "We did our best. I know that. But it still feels..."

"Yeah."

Shiro glances sideways and meets Ryou's gray eyes. It was strange, in the beginning, to learn how his emotions showed on his face, but he's grateful for it now. The adrenaline from fighting hasn't fully faded, and Shiro knows that Ryou is just as unsettled as he is, just as jittery, just as frustrated. 

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Shiro murmurs.

Ryou's eyes flicker towards the other paladins. Shiro unconsciously copies the movement. Lance looks back at them, ever-perceptive, and the movement draws Keith's temporary attention, but none of the others notice. They won't be missed.

"Always," Ryou says.

.

Their armor goes in pieces. Their biosuits go in a single slide. Shiro grips Ryou's hips—the flesh stretched taut over his angular bones—and wedges a knee between Ryou's thighs. Ryou grunts and sinks his nails into Shiro's skin.

"Aggressive," Ryou remarks even as hot lines from his scratch bloom on Shiro's back. "Is that your way of saying you wanna fuck me?"

Shiro doesn't refrain from rolling his eyes. "You don't know?"

"Well, I wanna fuck you," Ryou answers. "But—"

"Too much work," Shiro concurs. "Where did I—"

"Bottom drawer. In my room."

"Fuck," Shiro curses.

"Run for it?"

"You read my mind."

They break temporarily apart. Ryou opens the door and sticks his head out, glancing both ways. The corridor is lit but empty, and when Ryou dashes forward, naked and erect, Shiro follows like a shadow. Then they are in Ryou's room, the lights of his quarters flickering on harsh and white. Ryou beelines to wall where there are built-in compartments while Shiro grabs the lube out of the tiny ensuite bathroom. 

"We need to get another one of these," Ryou grumbles as they tumble into bed. Shiro squirts lube onto his palm, swiping roughly over his dick, then over Ryou's. Ryou hisses at the sensation.

"We don't need two." Shiro caps the lube and tosses it on the floor. "Don't be lazy."

"Please," Ryou says as he positions the toy between them. "Like you weren't thinking it."

Shiro was. Of course he was. He and Ryou are the same down to their atoms; they were the same person for twenty-four years, before magic and malice split them into separate bodies. But Shiro doesn't want to banter, not right now, and grunts instead, "Got it?"

Ryou angles the toy towards Shiro. It's a simple silicone sleeve, soft and malleable, and it contains a fluid that quickly heats to body temperature. It's open at both ends and able to hold them together, which is great when both of them want to fuck like this. Shiro sinks into it first, barely holding back a whine.

"Yeah," Ryou whispers as he holds the sleeve in place. "Like that, like that."

Shiro puts his real hand on Ryou's shoulder and tugs on Ryou's balls with his prosthesis. Ryou hisses again, knees spreading as his hips roll up. Shiro tugs again—and again—and again—until Ryou slaps his wrist.

"What?" Shiro smirks. "You didn't like it?"

Ryou sinks his teeth into the meat of Shiro's shoulder and his dick into the toy. Shiro makes a noise caught between a laugh and a gasp at the twin sensations. The sleeve is tight, but not overly so, and has already adjusted to the heat of Ryou's palm and Shiro's shaft. They shift together—knees planted on the mattress, chest against chest, lips pressed into a wet smear—and immediately fall into synchronization. 

It's a fierce and steady progression. When Shiro slides forward, Ryou slides back. Ryou keeps a firm grip on the toy and, to stay oriented, Shiro keeps a hand on Ryou's hip. Their free hands wander from scalp to throat, from nipple to ass, tugging and palming and pinching and squeezing. Shiro isn't afraid to twist the pink buds of Ryou's chest red and Ryou knows that Shiro wants to have his hole touched. It's a good, easy arrangement, if not narcissistic.

"Wrist," Ryou grunts after a time, the word slurred against Shiro's mouth.

"Okay," Shiro answers. He doesn't need further explanation; he simply swaps positions with Ryou so that he's holding the toy and Ryou's hand falls warm on his hip.

It doesn't take much longer. The annoyed itch beneath Shiro's skin has pushed his passion to the brink and all he wants is to come. His balls feel tight and heavy. He and Ryou are trading breaths rather than kisses, their hands anchored high on the nape of each other's neck.

"Close," one of them whispers.

"I know," the other replies.

And then they come to together and, trembling, come apart.

.

The lights are dimmed. A blanket has been stretched over their cooled bodies. They face each other, barely fitted on a bed made for one. Their gazes meet. Match. They look at each other, and themselves. The last traces of adrenaline has been forced from their bones and left only the emptiness of fatigue.

"We did what we could," Shiro whispers.

"Yeah," Ryou agrees. "We did."

But in the darkness, stuck on the unforgiving precipice of sleep, both wish they could have done more.

.


	18. lance/shiro

#### untitled

**notes:** i wanted to hurt i guess  
**warnings:** unrequited love

.

Lance has never been in a long-term relationship. There have been crushes and other small things—like hand-holding and dates on the wharf—but it was never... love. True love. That love he would die for, or kill for. That inevitable love that he would wait for. That selfless love he would let go of.

That love he knows.

That love he sees.

That love in Shiro's hopeful eyes and tremulous mouth, that love in Shiro's hesitant step forward, that love in his upturned palms, that love in his voice when he whispers, "Adam?"

A man in warm Garrison gray throws himself into Shiro's embrace and hides his face against the side of Shiro's neck. One hand buries itself into Shiro's white hair and the other cradles the base of Shiro's skull. Shiro wraps his arm tightly around the man's waist. They sway, their balance shifting, and Lance catches Shiro's expression.

Soft. Warm. _Vulnerable_.

' _Oh,_ ' Lance thinks as the other man—Adam—chokes on a laugh, a sound of relief strangled by bitter happiness. ' _Oh._ '

Lance has never been in a long-term relationship. But he has known love—and now, its loss.

.


	19. shiro/lance

#### a binding together

**notes:** i'm a huge sucker for the trope in which canon-verse characters meets alternate universe characters. given that the paladins LITERALLY go to another dimension in one of the seasons, this isn't too far out of the realm of possibility. i originally planned to turn this into a series of interconnected drabbles with multiple POVs, but i only managed the four below before losing inspiration.  
**warnings:** none

.

#### 01

  


Shiro is at home, making eggs for dinner for the thousandth time, when the fabric of reality literally rips open in his living room. There is no noise—at least nothing within the range of human hearing—but there is deep reverberation that shakes Shiro down to his atoms. An ineffable sensation of wrongness that pervades the air, causing the hairs on the back of Shiro’s neck stand on end. He turns, his mouth opening to shout or scream or gasp, and—

Space-time tears like a piece of wet, heavy paper.

A man in white and blue stumbles out of nothing and into Shiro’s coffee table. A few empty cartons of chinese take-out and one bottle of beer fall to the carpet. The man swears, imbalanced, then rights himself.

Behind him, the rift closes as quickly as it opened.

"Shit!" the man exclaims. He whirls around and reaches out, as though to feel for the edges of what is no longer there. "Shit, shit, shit, _shitshitshitshit_! No! Why is this—this cannot be happening!"

Shiro watches as the man clutches at his helmet, gloved hands trembling against the smooth curve. He mutters some more, the words incomprehensible, before he glances up. Looks left. Looks right. Sees shiro in the kitchenette, holding a spatula while his meal burns in the skillet behind him. Then, to make this improbable situation even more surreal, the man says,

"Shiro?"

with so much familiarity it makes Shiro’s heart seize in his chest.

He’s heard about this before. About quantum entanglement, about the odd consistencies between infinite universes, about fate. He peers at the man’s face. Shiro can make out an angular jaw, an upturned nose, and thin, expressive eyebrows, but other details about his features are obscured by his blue-tinted visor. Still, what Shiro sees is enough for him to realize that, whoever this man is in another universe, Shiro does not know him in this one.

Shiro sighs, knowing already that Slav’s going to have a field day with this strange irregularity, and extends his prosthetic hand.

"Hello," he recites. "I am special officer Takashi Shirogane with the Interdimenisonal Search and Relocation Bureau, and you are from another universe."

.

#### 02

  


Lance watches as not-Shiro makes his way back into the kitchen. The muscles in his back shift beneath the thin material of his tank top, heavy and defined, and when he takes the pan off the stove, he does so with a sleek prosthesis. It is not the one Lance is familiar with; instead, it is incredibly life-like, given away only by its strange sheen and the seam where it connects.

"So this happens a lot?" Lance asks. There is a couch and a loveseat nearby, the cushions sagging with use. It looks incredibly comfortable. "The universe jumping thing?"

"In this universe, yes," not-Shiro replies, scrapping burnt eggs into a compressor. Then, "You don't seem so surprised."

"This isn't my first time in another universe." Lance looks away from the couch and instead removes his helmet, tucking it beneath his arm. "Actually, this isn't my first time meeting another you."

Not-Shiro's head snaps up. There is no white in his short hair but—like Sven—his eyes are a perfect shade of storm gray.

"Is that strange?" Lance asks.

"No," not-Shiro replies. "It's actually quite common."

Lance pauses. Thinks about the way not-Shiro just reacted. Thinks about Sven, who didn’t know him either. Says, tentatively, "But you don’t know me."

"No," not-Shiro affirms even as his gaze travels over Lance’s exposed face, memorizing the details. "I don’t."

"And that’s weird?"

"Uncommon."

"And that’s because...?"

"Because even though the multi-verse is infinite, infinity still follows a... very complex rule of probability. That you know me—multiple versions of me—while I don’t know you—well, let’s just say that I have a coworker who would find that kind of anomaly... very interesting."

"Slav?"

Not-Shiro’s raises an eyebrow and says with a grin, "I don’t even know why I’m surprised."

"So what do you?" Lance asks. "When this happens?"

"Take you to the Bureau. Get you in the system and process you. Then..." not-Shiro hesitates. "Then, depending on the situation, you will either return to your original dimension or be assimilated."

.

#### 03

  


"Assimilated?" Shiro watches Lance’s eyes narrow and his hand stray towards the red device attached at his hip. It doesn’t look like any weapon Shiro has ever seen but—well, the multiverse is infinite. "What does that mean?"

"It’s not as sinister as it sounds," Shiro assures, keeping his voice calm and his posture loose. "Assimilation is the integration of non-ids—sorry, non-Nexus individuals—into our society. It’s for those who choose to stay or those who cannot go back."

Lance’s gloved hand falls away from his maybe-weapon. His eyes, blue like the accents of his armor, stay cautiously sharp.

"Well, this alternate universe is a lot better than the last one I visited," Lance drawls, all dark and wry humor. "But I couldn’t stay even if I wanted. Ever heard of Voltron?"

Shiro shakes his head. If there’s anything he’s learned as an officer in the ISRB, it’s that he will always know as much as he doesn’t.

"Must be another anomaly then." Lance grins. "Hey, do you think my universe might be the weirdo-verse? The outlier in infinite probabilities? Because, man, that would explain a looooooo—holy crow, what if _I’m_ the anomaly?"

"It’s as possible as it isn’t."

"Can you like, look that up?"

"Yes and no," Shiro tells him. "We have a database that records all non-ids. If an analog has passed into the Nexus, the information regarding when and what they chose to do will be there." Shiro pauses. "If you have a registered analog, that information will be available too."

"The Nexus?" Lance says the word slowly, as though trying to weigh each syllable on his tongue. "And... registered analog?"

Shiro pointedly looks away from Lance’s mouth. His lips are as thin and expressive as the rest of him, and Shiro—Shiro should not be thinking about how nice Lance’s smile is. So Shiro clears his throat, pushes his wandering thoughts away, and says, "Sorry. Bureau jargon. Essentially, the Nexus is what we call our universe, and an analog is... well, another you."

"Wow," Lance breathes, eyes wide with wonder. All previous hints of wariness disappear at the mention of an analog. "That happens?"

"Both more and less than you’d think." Shiro runs a hand down his tank top, realizing belatedly that he’s in his rattiest pair of sweatpants. Thankfully, Lance doesn’t seem to notice. "Anyway, I should get dressed and bring you to the station. You can sit down, if you want. I’ll be a couple minutes."

"Yeah," Lance murmurs. "Yeah, okay, that’s—that’s cool. Cool cool cool. I’ll just..." Lance glances at the couch. The coffee table. The things he knocked over upon his arrival. Shiro. There isn’t fear in his eyes—at least, not the panic that Shiro sees on a daily basis—but there is a small amount of trepidation creeping into his expression. 

"Don’t worry," Shiro reassures. "We’ll get this sorted out in no time."

"Promise?"

"Yeah," Shiro says. "I promise."

.

#### 04

  


Leandro doesn’t hear his comm ring while he’s in the shower. He’s too busy singing along with the radio and shaking his hips to focus past the immediate: the heat of the water, the lyrics of the newest pop song, and the small bit of shampoo that creeps into his eye.

“Fuck you’re loud,” his roommate, Katie, gripes when he emerges, clad in his favorite summer robe. “How many times do I have to remind you how thin the walls are?”

“Please,” Leandro retorts. “I am an _artiste_.”

Katie rolls her eyes. “Whatever. You got a call while you were performing.”

“Hunk?”

“No.”

My mom?”

“No.”

“What about that hot guy from—"

“Goddamn, I don’t know!” Katie all but chucks the comm at Leandro. He catches it, his reflexes honed by an entire childhood filled with rambunctious younger cousins. “It was registered to the bureau. You probably forgot something at work again and Iverson is calling to chew you out.”

Leandro looks down at his comm. The number is registered to the bureau, but it isn’t Iverson. (Leandro has Iverson’s direct line saved. He’s learned his lesson.) There’s a voice message saved though, and Leandro sighs. It’s a Wednesday evening and—yeah, maybe he didn’t complete as much as he should have, but as far as he knows, none of his processing was urgent.

_Ugh,_ Leandro thinks as he begins the message. _I really hate my job._

But it isn’t about his job. In fact, it’s about something so wildly different and unexpected that, after finishing, Leandro plops down at the kitchen table, turns the comm on speaker, and looks wide-eyed at Katie.

“Leandro?” Katie asks, abrasiveness gone. “Are you okay?”

In lieu of reply, Leandro hits play.

“Hello,” a masculine voice says. “This is Officer Takashi Shirogane with the Interdimensional Search and Relocation Bureau. I am calling you to inform you that an analog has passed into the Nexus. Please go online to the ISRB homepage, call the ISRB hotline, or go to your local police in order to complete a Nexus Native Declaration. If you wish to be a part of the Analog Sponsorship Program, please enroll once the nex-nat has been completed. Thank you, and have a good rest of your night."

The message ends with a small beep. Leandro and Katie look at one another, eyes wide.

“ _Holy shit,_ ” Katie says.

“Yeah,” Leandro whispers. “Holy shit.”

.


End file.
